Actus Contritionis
by schweinsty
Summary: Some days are harder than others, and Athos's first thought in waking is of longing for the bottles and musket he's left lying with his gear. TW for suicidal ideation.


A.N: The prayer in Latin included in this fic (actus contritionis/the act of contrition), or so google tells me, is translated thus:

Act of Contrition

O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,

and I detest these and all my sins

because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell.

But most of all, because I have offended Thee

Who art all good and deserving of all my love.

I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace

To confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.

* * *

_Actus Contritionis_

Some days are harder than others.

Some days he wakes up and looks at the musket he's left lying with his gear and he thinks _Holy God I want to put it to my temple_ but instead he cleans himself and dresses and makes it to the garrison on time. Aramis is there, and Porthos, and they train and fight and ride for glory and honor and everything else that Athos will never have again.

_D__eus meus,__ ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum_

The first mission they take with d'Artagnan is a dull little training trip to a convent in Vernon where they're couriering a packed of letters from one of the queen's favorite ladies.

It's hot and boring and bereft of anything approaching trouble. Porthos and Aramis sit easy in their saddles and trade the occasional quip, and d'Artagnan rides at his side and beams about himself as if the sun is shining just for him.

Athos travels in silence and thinks with longing of the bottle and the musket and the wicked dance of dueling swords that any day might claim his life.

"I know this place," d'Artagnan says suddenly as he spurs his horse into a trot. "My father brought me here when I was young, to stop on our way to Paris. The wine was excellent."

Athos urges his horse forward and follows. What wind there is whips through his hair and cools his head, and from the abbey he hears song as women raise their voices up at vespers.

He smiles and bows in greeting at the Mother Superior when she meets them, and if the smile doesn't really reach his eyes nobody says anything about it.

_eaque detestor, quia peccando _

When d'Artagnan has been with them two months, Athos kills a man who tries to run the boy through during a mission. He does not think about the man again for several days, and spends the night in celebration at their good success.

"Do you know how many men I've killed?" He asks Porthos some weeks later when they're drunk.

Porthos shakes his head and shrugs.

"Neither do I."

The wine does not taste bitter as it wets his throat; it is sweet and bubbly and tastes of fruit. Athos wishes it would choke him.

_non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum_

When Aramis takes a dagger to the stomach, Porthos will not leave his side.

"Sleep," Athos murmurs, pulling up a chair. "I'll wake you. I swear."

Porthos clenches his hands into fists and takes a breath and doesn't move.

"We can't lose him," he says at last. "'s Aramis."

Athos doesn't deal in platitudes, but he wraps his arm round Porthos's neck and looks him in they eye all the same.

"Aramis has nothing to fear," he says. And he means that with the fiercest truth.

Porthos bows his head and lies down on the cot across the room, and Athos prays to God and asks forgiveness for his lie, because he thinks he's keeping watch over a deathbed. But Aramis—may drink and whore and blaspheme—is good and honest and the best of men, and Athos knows the man need not fear death.

Athos is wrong, of course, for Aramis wakes the next day and heals, though slow, and Porthos nods and grins at Athos and tells d'Artagnan there is hope inside 'the grumpy bastard' after all.

Athos doesn't bother to correct him.

_sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum,_

_ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris _

Athos doesn't go to Mass unless it is required in the service of his duties. He crosses himself and kneels at the right moments, but his lips don't move, and he never asks to take confession.

"How many sins must you have on your mind by now, eh?" Porthos asks after one particularly rowdy night.

Athos feigns a laugh and lets d'Artagnan change the subject. There is no need to speak of lesser sins when he has done the very worst.

God might forgive him, but he never will.

_Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua _

Athos sees the glint of a musket pointed at Treville and moves before he even thinks.

"Hold still," Aramis mutters some moments later. "Porthos, find a cart!"

"You little fool," Treville says from somewhere very high above him. "We will have words when you are well, you understand?"

Athos hears his shirt rip under Aramis's ministrations and tastes blood and grins. So close. Just has to shut his eyes and let it go, and everything will stop and Anne will leave his mind and leave him be and he will sleep in peace for the first time in years.

"Look for'rd to it, Sir," he says, and tries his best to stay awake.

_de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum _

He wakes at dusk. It takes him several moments to breathe through the pain.

He's in Treville's bed and d'Artagnan's asleep in a chair at his side. Athos feels his heart clench with overwhelming fondness for a moment before he takes a breath and looks down at his wound.

It's bandaged well and there's no blood yet seeping through the cloth. Good. Must have looked and felt worse than it was, and he'll be on his feet again within a week.

No death yet for the Comte de la Fere, and Athos breathes a sigh of relief, for if there's something he deserves even less than the promise of hope of tenuous redemption more years of life can bring, it is the certain peace and irresponsibility of death.

He does not know how many men he's murdered, but he has kept a careful count of the women, and he wears it daily on the locket round his neck that chokes him just as well as rope.

Athos shuts his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep and heal, and as he drifts off he thinks with longing of the bottles and musket on the table far across the room.

_Amen._


End file.
